Modern Art

"What piteous beauty," Dr. Henry McCoy sighed. "What a horror this
poor child's life, and yet what strength and divine patience on that
little face! Such a provocative way to link the plight of the street
children of New Orleans with the life of Jesus Christ! This artist's
work is astonishingly sensitive. Reminiscent of Botticelli, only
more starkly emotional."

Remy LeBeau grunted. "Kid ain't strong or patient, jus' hurt and
dead inside. An' de artist, he was a pervert who pay chile
prostitutes to stan' butt nekkid for hours on en' while he paint dem,
an' den he fuck `em when he was finished."

The blue furry doctor was visibly ruffled. "Gambit, I hardly think
that was called for—"

"Take a closer look at dat kid, Hank," the Cajun said quietly, and
then wandered off to look dispassionately at some poorly-executed
piece of modern sculpture.

McCoy followed his young friend with his eyes for a moment, and then
turned back to the painting. He found himself seeing it less as a
whole work and noticing the details for the first time. The bruises
and wounds on the young boy's body nearly blinded him to the lean,
sinewy form, the ephemeral light falling across the hair washed out
the color until the cinnamon red appeared sandy brown. Eyes he had
thought were merely large and dark…

...were in fact red over black.

"Oh, dear Lord in Heaven," he breathed. He had known that Gambit had
lived on the streets for a time in his youth…but a child prostitute?
He thought the boy had lived picking pockets and stealing food from
the open markets. He was not at all surprised to feel tears coursing
down his furry cheeks.

He didn't know what to do. He wanted to go to his friend, to say he
was sorry, to apologize to him on behalf of the entire cruddy world.
He did not think the Cajun would appreciate that. No longer feeling
much in the mood for art, Henry McCoy went to look dispassionately at
a poorly-executed piece of modern sculpture.